


Blame It On The Stir Fry

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-04-15
Updated: 2000-04-15
Packaged: 2018-11-21 00:52:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11346615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Mulder gets hurt. Skinner takes him home. It's a PWP, what were you expecting? War and Peace?





	Blame It On The Stir Fry

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Blame It On The Stir Fry by Charlie Bird

Title: Blame It On The Stir Fry  
Date Written: September 17, 1999  
Date Completed: April 10, 2000  
Author: Charlie Bird <Kate>  
Email:   
Spoilers: Yeah, right. Tell me another one.  
Rating: Anything less than NC-17 would be really misleading. So, all you kiddies- go! Shoo! I don't need to get irate emails from your mother about corrupting her baby. You've been warned!  
Keywords: M/Sk, MT  
Summary: Mulder gets hurt. Skinner takes him home. It's a PWP, what were you expecting? War and Peace?  
Archive: Please ask first.  
Disclaimers: Whatever. Mulder and Skinner aren't mine.  
Author's Thanks: This never would have seen the light of day if it wasn't for the best betas in the world. Sue, Poly, rac, and XWoman1013- you guys rule! I thank you from the bottom of my heart for giving this first timer a chance to air my pen out. I hope this is as good as you guys said it could be. I never would have had the courage to post this if it wasn't for you four. This Bud's for you! (oops- wrong line) Thanks again!  
Author's Notes: Well, I've never written NC-17 stuff before. At all. Period. Not even the straight stuff. What a way to jump in the smut pool. By the way, I love feedback! I thrive on feedback! I dream about feedback! Did I mention feedback? 

* * *

"Blame It On The Stir Fry"  
by Charlie Bird

7:34 pm  
George Washington Medical Center

Sitting on the exam bed with my legs dangling over the edge, I'm surrounded by a wall and two drab colored partitions when I hear him. "Behind the curtain, sir," I say, trying to make my voice sound stronger than it actually is.

He pokes his head around the bland yellow divider, holding his hand up either in a gesture to say "Five minutes" or "Hello"; I'm not sure which. Just as soon as he appears, he disappears. Must've been the five minute thing.

The nurse finishes wrapping the gauze around my right forearm, then gives me a sympathetic smile. "I'll get you some more gauze and a tube of this cream before you go. The doctor has a 'script for a painkiller, also."

Skinner reappears moments after the nurse leaves, an expression on his face almost as bland as the curtain that he just pushed aside. "I'm going to let you explain why we're both here, because frankly, I'm inclined not to believe what the doctor told me."

I nod once, drawing a breath. "My kitchen blew up," I mumble, picking at a spot on my jeans where a vegetable of undetermined origin got mashed. I'm not feeling inclined to look at him at the moment, so I keep my eyes on my fingers while they pick. Not that I'd be able to see his eyes, anyway. He always hides them behind those wire rims.

"Speak up, Agent Mulder, I didn't quite catch that," he says, and I can see out of the corners of my eyes that he's crossing his arms over his chest.

Drawing a deeper breath this time, I dart my eyes up to his face, but quickly drop them back to my fingers. Louder, I repeat what I just said. "My kitchen blew up."

"That's what I thought you said," he replies, pulling his glasses off to pinch the bridge of his nose. I watch him rub at his eyes before replacing his glasses. "How did your kitchen blow up?" I can hear the wariness in his voice, almost as if he's dreading the answer.

"I don't know, sir. I was cooking dinner, them bam! The stove's on fire, and I'm across the room, burned and coated in food," I answer, fidgeting on the bed. My arm is killing me, and I have to consciously fight the urge to scratch all the little burns across my chest and neck.

"Do you have a gas stove?"

I raise my head at the question, then nod slowly. I meet his eyes for the first time, and see barely controlled humor, along with sympathy, in their depths. "The gas was turned on low, sir. I was warming up a skillet for leftover stir fry."

"Have you notified your landlord about this . . . attack stove you have?"

Allowing my left hand to come up and scratch at an itchy spot below my right clavicle, I shake my head and ignore the comment about my stove. "Uh, no. He-- he's out of town, and I had to put out the fire, and then get help. I just--."

He cuts me off with a wave of his hand while the other one grabs my left wrist, pulling my hand back and away, holding it loosely against the exam bed. The contact sends a jolt of heat up my arm from where his callused hand holds my wrist. "I didn't think so. How'd you get here? Ambulance?"

I nod again. "I would've called Scully, but she's in Richmond at a pathology conference, as I'm sure you know. You were closer," I say half-truthfully, while trying not to notice how increasingly warm his fingers are around my wrist. Scully is actually in Richmond, but there are others I could call. The Gunmen, for three. Mrs. Scully is always an option. Or, if I didn't have one of those doctors that are adamant about a family member or friend coming in to see the patient get safely home, I could call for a taxi. I just feel like being around Skinner. There's been a subtle chemistry developing between the two of us lately that I want to explore a bit.

He must have realized that he still has my arm in his grasp, because he quickly releases me, bringing that hand up to rub at the back of his neck. I briefly see embarrassment on his face before he quickly replaces it with his previous bland expression. I miss the contact of his fingers almost immediately.

He clears his throat before speaking. "You getting anything for the burns? Cream? Powder?" he asks, looking somewhere over my right shoulder.

The nurse comes back before I can answer, so I relax a little, giving her a tight smile as she passes me a bag laden with medical goodies. Joy.

Speaking directly to Skinner instead of me, she says, "Make sure he keeps the burns on his chest and arm clean. The cream that's in there is for his arm only; just drop into the pharmacy here and get a bottle of aloe for the ones that are on his chest. There's a prescription for a topical pain reliever for the worst of the burns in that bag I gave him. You can get that filled for him here, also. Air that large burn on his arm out for a few hours over the next couple of days. After that, he shouldn't need to keep it bandaged any longer. And absolutely no scratching!" This she says while focusing on me before returning her attention to Skinner. "Or picking, either, for that matter. He'll leave a scar if he picks. Rub some of the cream on his burn if it starts to itch. If it itches, it's healing. Bring him back if it looks like it's infected."

Finally, she finishes, and I do my best not to smirk at Skinner. He has that overwhelmed look on his face, the one a person gets when they're suddenly handed a list of ten things that have to get done as of yesterday. He presses his lips together, and I swear, he wants to set her straight about our boss/employee relationship, but he doesn't. He meets my eyes, and I can just barely see an expression behind the lenses that clearly says, 'What in hell did you get me in to, Agent Mulder?' I suppress a chuckle at this.

The discharge papers are suddenly thrust my way, and I reluctantly pull my gaze from my boss. He has that dear caught in the headlights look, and I don't want to break our eye contact.

My signature is even more erratic than usual, I notice, when I hand the clipboard back. It must be because every time I move my fingers, the skin pulls over the burn and I wish that I could get a nice cocktail of painkillers to numb my entire forearm. Only if the needles are absent. Yeck. The little bit of pain stuff they gave me when I came in isn't doing much but make me drowsy.

The nurse heads off with a smile and a "Have a good evening", her clipboard tucked firmly under her arm. Skinner relieves me of my bag of supplies, then helps me slide off the gurney. 

"I think she was trying to tell you something, sir," I remark, walking slowly with him from the emergency room. I stumble a bit over my own feet, and I feel him slip an arm around my waist, steadying me. I lean into him as we walk, a comforted and fuzzy feeling of warmth settling over my body. I think I could stand here for hours with his arm around me like this.

"And that would be--?" he prompts, his fingers firmly closing around my right hip bone.

"That I'm not capable of taking care of myself, and that you should take me home and baby me," I say, a teasing tone surfacing in my words. I smile softly and feel a pleasant sensation settling in my groin. He's having an effect on me, that's for sure. And from the way he shifts his arm against my back, I can tell that I'm having an effect on him, too. Now, whether he wants to shove me away or pull me closer, that's his decision.

He does neither, but simply steers me toward his deep blue Jeep Cherokee where he has it waiting with the emergency blinkers flashing, in a no parking zone. He has to open the door for me, because the handle was just too hard to maneuver left handed while holding my bag of meds and stuff. I mumble my thanks before climbing in.

I think I was actually dozing off a little when he speaks next, jerking me back to consciousness. My arm twitches, and I grimace when it rubs against the door handle. "What did you say?" I ask, turning my head to meet his eyes.

"I asked if it was safe to take you back to your apartment. You didn't say if the fire department was called, or what the damage was."

Do I want to go back to my apartment? My kitchen is definitely trashed. My living room, more than likely, isn't much better. I'm not even going to get started on the bedroom. I think I'd rather stay with someone, but I'm not about to invite myself in.

I rub a hand over my face, letting my words come out between my fingers. "There's a little motel about six block west of Hegal Place. I'll get a room for the night." I'm tired all of a sudden, and all I want is somewhere soft to lie down.

He lets out an exasperated sigh. "I've got a guest room, Agent Mulder. You can stay there until your apartment's taken care of," he says as he flips on the turn signal, maneuvering the Cherokee over an on-ramp for the Beltway.

If I wasn't so tired, I would protest and politely decline his offer, but I'm on a single-minded quest right now, and all I can think about is sleep.

XxXxXxX

I wake up to find myself in an unfamiliar, dark room, in complete silence. I'm not exactly sure how he got me from the car to his apartment. I have vague recollections of stumbling from his Cherokee, an elevator ride while leaning tiredly against a masculine shoulder, and a soft mattress with a warm comforter. Slowly, I begin to push myself into a sitting position, but my burned arm protests rather loudly, and I collapse back onto the bed, nearly biting through my lip to keep the howl of pain in check.

Breathe. In. Out. Maybe if I hug it to my chest . . . They never tell you that once the shock wears off, the pain rears its ugly head. What happened to that prescription pain killer stuff? Or that cream? I glance over in the dark, and see something by the clock that could be a tube of cream, but I'm not sure. I'm not about to move right now so I can investigate. 

I stay flat on my back, right arm tucked under my left, taking deep, calming breaths for a few minutes. Once the throbbing in my arm is back in a bearable zone, I roll to my left, awkwardly pushing myself up with my left elbow. Okay, I don't remember undressing myself, so I guess he helped me out of my food encrusted T-shirt and jeans. I'm getting rid of the socks. Man, I look like an idiot, standing here in socks and boxers. Thank God I decided not to put on the boxers with the tiny aliens.

Barefoot and boxer-clad, I glance back at the clock glowing near the right side of the bed. 1:28 am. Wonderful. Maybe if I can get a glass of water and some Tylenol, along with that cream, I'll be able to get a few more hours of sleep.

In the dark, I make my way around the bed to the nightstand. It really is very quiet in this apartment. If I strain my ears, I can just make out the sounds of Skinner's soft snores.

I collect the tube of cream from the nightstand and stagger from the bedroom, managing to catch my left knee in the door jam rather painfully. I end up limping and cursing my way to the bathroom. Or, at least, I think it's the bathroom.

My investigative skills have led me to the linen closet. Towels, sheets, rolls of individually wrapped toilet paper. Other things, I'm sure, but this is not where I want to go, so I shut the door and point myself in the other direction.

There's another door catty-cornered to the room I woke up in, and this one is slightly ajar. I push it open, and quickly realize that I _still_ haven't found the bathroom. Dammit, all I want is a stupid pill and some water!

Squinting in the dim light, I identify this as Skinner's bedroom, and I can just barely make out his form on the bed that is situated against one wall. Not wanting to disturb him, I shut the door with a barely audible click, and turn. There's one last door, and it's next to my room. I swear, if the bathroom is downstairs --.

Luckily, this door reveals my destination, and there's even a little night light plugged in by the sink, so I don't have to blind myself by turning on the overhead. Shifting my weight onto my right leg, I balance myself against the sink to rub the soreness from my left knee while struggling with the medicine cabinet. The cream, out of necessity, goes on the counter.

My hand to eye co-ordination is still foggy from sleep as I fumble around in the cabinet for some Tylenol. I manage to knock nearly half its contents into and around the sink. Cursing again, I try to get my balance in check while fixing the mess I just made.

It doesn't help any that Skinner chooses this moment to appear. I whirl around, surprised, grasping the counter to keep from falling. I can feel the burn on my arm begin to object at my sudden movements. 

I must look like I'm ready to attack him, because he takes a step backward, holding his hands up. "Sorry. I heard you shut my door, and I figured you were looking for the bathroom. I shouldn't have snuck up on you."

"I just want some Tylenol," I mutter, turning back to search for the elusive white bottle. I'm getting those same feelings for Skinner that I felt at the hospital. Warm and tingly. I don't do warm and tingly. Not usually. It's just -- he looks so damn sexy in those p.j. bottoms. If I'm not diligent about finding the Tylenol, I'm going to turn around and take him here, on his bathroom floor, burns be damned. Though I've been harboring an attraction to him for years, I now realize, the bathroom floor is _not_ where I want the first time to be.

"Here. It's the only one you didn't knock down," he responds, reaching over my left shoulder and into the cabinet. His arm brushes against my bare skin, and I feel his naked chest press against my back as he leans a little toward me in the crowded bathroom. 

As the blood begins to pool south of my waist, I wonder if he's feeling the same electric charge between the two of us that I am right now. I can't remember anything about this evening that tips off to me how he feels. I bite my lip to keep in the whimper when he presses closer to reach the bottle, so that he's nearly doing a complete body press against my back.

I'm not very successful in keeping quiet because he stops his movement, arm still outstretched and brushing against mine. "Mulder . . ." I'm not sure if he ever intended for anything else to be added after my name, but just the sound of it catches me off guard. His voice is deep, almost a growl, and it sends a jolt of electricity straight through me. Any doubts I had about his feelings are completely gone now. The look in his eyes as I meet them in the now-closed vanity mirror reflects the same amount of desire I'm showing.

Turning my head slightly to the left, I open my mouth to speak, but never get the chance to actually say anything. His mouth covers mine, gentle at first, but quickly turning demanding. His tongue nudges against my bottom lip, seeking entrance. I discover, much to my enjoyment, what a great kisser he is. I don't stand a chance as he devours my mouth. My sense of reason is being quickly over ridden by the senses gathering between my legs.

I turn against him, parting my lips, kissing him back with all the intensity that he's kissing me. Now, this isn't the first time I've kissed a man; I've probably had more male lovers than female, though I'm not about to do the math at the moment. All that I can concentrate on is the tongue dueling with mine, and the feeling of another erection meeting mine as I shift, pressing my hips to his.

He breaks the kiss first, panting, fingers playing along my biceps. I know he's skirting around the burns, but quite frankly, I can't feel them that much. All my blood has gone south, and the only thing seriously throbbing at the moment is my cock. 

My eyes are closed, allowing me to savor in my mind what just happened. I can still feel his lips playing over mine. Still out of breath, my voice sounds weak when I break the silence. "Lord. All I wanted was a couple of pills, but I seem to have gotten something extra for my troubles."

"Ah, sorry. I don't usually attack my house guests like this," he apologizes, squeezing my arms gently one last time before letting me go.

He tries to leave, but I open my eyes, grabbing hold of him to keep him in place. I have my ass perched against the sink, and he's standing on either side of my legs. He has a vaguely embarrased expression on his face when I stop him. I see that a flush has risen on his cheeks, and his eyes are a smoldering dark brown. The minuscule amount of light that is present reflects the passion in their depths, and I smile to myself, knowing that I put that there. 

"Don't go. There's nothing to be sorry about," I tell him, smoothing my hands along his sides. His own hands are bracing the sink on either side of my hips, and I inadvertently press my injured arm against his while I roam over the expanse of his chest. I wince and draw back, setting a new course of exploration with my fingertips over his strong forearms and biceps, ending with my hands resting atop his shoulders.

He picks up on my discomfort, and immediately begins to protest. "Mulder, we shouldn't. Work-- your arm--," he says, his eyes delving straight into mine. I watch as he swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing almost imperceptibly.

"I don't care. Another kiss like that one and I probably won't even realize that my arm's hurt," I say quietly, curling my fingers around the edges of his shoulders. I'll probably pay for that comment later, but right now, I really can't feel the burn on my arm that much. I know I came in here for the Tylenol to help ease the pain, but Skinner's got me suitably distracted. Short of him squeezing the spot hard, nothing is going to keep me from getting the both of us in bed.

He draws a ragged breath before reaching up, his fingers pulling my head down to meet his. This time, I'm the one to pull away first, resting my forehead against his, gasping for air. 

I can feel his breath against my lips, hot and rapid, when he speaks. "Damn, you do that well."

I have to chuckle at that. "I'll take that as a compliment, sir. Just don't tell anyone. It's my secret."

"Your secret's safe with me, but let's drop the 'sirs', okay? It seems a little ludicrous now." He shifts against me, and I don't bother stifling the moan of pleasure that wells up. 

"Okay. Sounds good," I say breathlessly, tipping my head back slightly as he plants little kisses along my jawline and down to my throat. "I think . . . I'd like to move this to the bedroom, Walt. Please." Even to my own ears, my voice sounds desperate and pleading. I _really_ don't want to do this in the bathroom.

He nods against me, placing a final kiss on my throat, along the pulse point there, before he pulls back. He grabs my hand and tugs me along with him by my good arm, guiding me backwards, actually. Smiling devilishly, I pull him close, planting a kiss square on his mouth as we make our way falteringly into his bedroom.

I trust that he knows where he's going in the dark, because I'm just walking, concentrating on learning every little contour of that mouth. He went to bed recently, because the mint of his toothpaste mixes with a taste that must be pure Skinner.

The backs of my knees hit the edge of the bed, and we tumble down, him landing on top of me. I whimper in both pain and pleasure against his mouth, and thrust my hips up against his.

My arm hits the headboard on the way down, but I ignore the pain when he groans and pushes back. Our erections are now mimicking what our tongues have been doing for the past minute or so. The kiss finally ends, but his mouth doesn't leave me. I can feel him move along my jaw again, leaving a trail of open mouth kisses that end at the base of my throat. 

At the point where neck meets shoulder, he bites hard enough that I know there'll be a mark in the morning. No sooner does that sensation end when he soothes the area with his tongue, licking until I moan deep in my throat. He's branding me for his own. I can definitely get used to the idea of belonging to Skinner. 

I arch against him, panting now, the hardness of my cock nearly unbearable. His fingers run along the waistband of the boxer briefs I'm wearing, while mine skim his sides and back, ending at his firm butt with a squeeze. It takes a few seconds of struggling for us to divest ourselves of what little we had on.

Slowly, once naked, he slides back up my body, stretching out completely over me. I part my legs, letting him settle between them, our cocks trapped against our stomachs, rubbing against each other. My hands circle his waist and drift to his back, exploring the hard muscles there. I hold him as tightly to my body as I can with both arms. The burns on the right side of my chest and arm begin to ache, and I ease up on my hold.

He senses my distress and adjusts his position, resting more of his weight on his forearms. "Better?" he whispers, dropping kisses over my chest, finding each and every burn and soothing them. 

The touch of his tongue over one nipple startles me, and instead of answering, I moan in pleasure, arching my back as he teases the sensitive peak to hardness. I flex my fingers along his spine, bringing one hand up to cradle the base of his skull. 

I can't stay still as he diverts his attention to the other nipple, giving it the same treatment as the first. I arch against him again, rubbing my cock harder against his. I should do something to reciprocate his attentions to me, but he has me thoroughly pinned to the mattress with the sensations of his cock and tongue.

We rock for a few moments, erections rubbing, while sounds of pleasure fill the room. Most of them, I'm sure, are coming from me. I bend my knees, giving myself more leverage, while somehow managing to pull his mouth back up to mine.

I'm so close, but I don't want it to end, not yet. I feel the trembling of his muscles while he struggles to hold back. I pull away from his lips just enough to speak, gasping for air. "Want you in me," I manage, stringing together enough brain cells to form something close to a coherent sentence.

He groans and attacks my mouth again. I can feel him fumbling near my right side, withdrawing what I assume is a condom and lube from the night stand. I whimper in need when he pulls back, moving so he's kneeling between my spread legs. I draw my knees up more, planting my feet further apart on the bed, inviting him to touch me. If I could speak, I'd tell him to, but words escape me at the moment. 

From half-closed eyes, I watch him squirt some of the lube onto his hand, warming it. He leans back over me, working a finger inside of me while capturing my mouth at the same time. I groan and thrust back against him, and it's only moments before he adds a second finger, both moving inside, stretching me. I nearly shoot straight off the bed when he brushes my prostate, sending a bolt of white-hot pleasure straight to my cock. "Oh, God, do that again," I gasp, feeling his laugh against my throat. He does, and I arch against him, wishing it was his cock and not his fingers doing the stroking.

I get my wish when, moments later, he nudges me to roll over. I shake my head and refuse his guiding. My life is impersonal enough as it is. He helps me to get my legs over his shoulders, and I finally feel him pressing against me. I force myself to take a calm breath, releasing it slowly as he eases himself inside.

He pauses with just the head breaching me, and I lower my legs, wrapping them around his waist. "'m okay. Go," I tell him, feeling the initial burn melt away to nothing but pleasure. I rub my hands along his forearms, squeezing the muscles there. I feel the pull on my own forearm, but ignore it. He does finally move, plunging all the way in and pulling back halfway.

I'm sure now that he's gasping as loudly as I am, and I press him closer with my legs. He hits my prostate with the next thrust, and I know I'm not going to last much longer.

Leaning forward, he rocks into me hard, trapping my cock between our bodies. The pressure is just enough to send me over the edge at last. We were both so close to begin with, and I find myself coming with startling force, semen landing on both of our stomachs and chests. He doesn't last much longer, and comes moments later, collapsing on my chest, still embedded in me.

"I forgot how good this felt," I gasp, my breathing still ragged. His weight is crushing me, and I'm finding it hard to breathe. His body feels so good over mine at the moment, despite the burns which are being abraded. I groan low in my throat when he pulls out, rolling away just long enough to ditch the condom.

"Me, too," he answers, placing a gentle kiss on my lips. I stretch up to meet him, and we continue this way for another few moments, languidly exploring the other's mouth in post-coital lassitude. When he breaks away, he murmurs something about bathrooms and washcloths, and I nod, pulling my left leg up to rub a cramp out of my calf.

After we both clean ourselves off and toss the cloths in the general direction of his hamper, I roll over and pillow myself against his chest. With my right arm lying next to my head, I speak first. "Thank you." I can feel the throbbing begin in my arm again. I probably should have taken the Tylenol, regardless of my determination to get horizontal. 

"It's been at least half my pleasure," he says, a chuckle rumbling in his chest. I shiver faintly as he runs a hand along my spine, and he draws me closer in to the circle of his arms. "Cold?"

"Not really. Walt, my arm," I say, barely keeping the pain from my voice. As the blood gradually returns to the rest of my body, I can now feel each and every tiny or large burn that I acquired this evening. When he shifted, my burned arm became trapped under his, reminding me of the two hours I spent at the emergency room.

He immediately releases me, and I push up from him, realizing that I need the Tylenol and cream anyway. Sex can do a lot for someone, but curing burns just isn't in it's job description.

He sits up with me, and I can see concern and apology in those chocolate eyes of his. "I'm sorry," he says quietly, reaching out to caress my jaw.

I turn my head a fraction and nuzzle at his palm. Placing a kiss on the webbing between thumb and forefinger, I say, "Don't worry. I'll be fine once I take a Tylenol."

Skinner draws me close again, stroking the hair at the nape of my neck. "Are you okay with this? With us?"

A smile plays at my lips. I was wondering when we would get around to this. Perhaps tomorrow, after we get some sleep, we'll hash this out at length. Right now, all I want to do is reassure him. I nod, and lean forward to kiss the tip of his stubby little nose. "Yep. I can't think of any place else I'd rather been at the moment."

The smile he gives me is enough to make me forget about my arm for the time being. I let him tug me back down to the bed, spooning me as we lay on our left sides. His lips press against the back of my head, and I feel his arm slide along my chest, avoiding the burns there. He splays his fingers over to cover my heart. I shut my eyes, feeling content for the first time in years. Maybe tomorrow I'll write my landlord a thank you note for never fixing that damn stove.

XxX end XxX


End file.
